The line it is drawn. The curse it is cast The reigning Olympic Champion got himself into perfect position in the front, on the pole, controlling the race into the final lap- a move perfected by Sir Mo Farah in his heyday and then added to the quiver of Centro, himself. The field bunched behind him, the champ let’s on no sign of stress as he sits on a land mine with full confidence in his ability to diffuse it, holding the line to 200m to go, fending off attacks around the bend and injecting a final deadly burst down the homestretch. Masterfully executing every move, the savviest tactician on the planet occupied the prime position for success at every point in the race, setting himself up for a gap on the field worthy of celebration antics, probably easing up at the line to stare convincingly up into the stands at those who both believed and doubted, closing the final circuit in 52 seconds to round out a 3:35. If the race was a DDR foot pad, it would have lit up all greens. The Colleg...